


the stars incline us

by foreverwriting9



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, and confessions, and some touch telepathy, there's also baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverwriting9/pseuds/foreverwriting9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s leaning against a tree now, the silver of the leaves reflecting off her hair, and for a split second he thinks about home and how sometimes it’s not a place at all but a person. Ten steps for saying goodbye to Clara Oswald.</p>
<p>(Spoiler free for S9.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars incline us

**astra inclinant, sed non obligant :** the stars incline us, they do not bind us; refers to the strength of free will over astrological determinism

 

-

She leaves.

Of course she does.

He's always known, from the moment he laid eyes on her, from the moment that they ran off together on Christmas morning, that he would lose her again one day. Second chances only last so long after all.

He just hopes he did this one right.

"I can't keep running." She's kneeling next to her grandmother's bed when she says it, more to herself than him. Like a realization that she has known all along but has largely ignored in favor of adventure and stardust and him. Until now.

Clara glances over her shoulder at him, where he is standing awkwardly between a buckling bookshelf and a too-bright floor lamp, pretending to look cool and dangerous. In truth, he’s actually trying very desperately to not notice that she’s crying.

“I can’t keep running,” she says again, sliding fingers over the bedspread until she reaches her grandmother’s hand and takes it gently in her own. “I can’t leave her now. Not when she’s - ” The words choke her, so she stops. “I can’t.”

It’s impossible to ignore her crying now, the way her shoulders shake as she tries not to sob in front of him. He wants to leave her to her mourning. He wants to gather her close and never, ever let her go. He wants so much and not enough that it’s dizzying.

"I know," he says. And he does.

 

* * *

 

**I.**

After Christmas, he takes her to see the stars.

"What's this?" she asks, smiling when he opens the TARDIS doors and gestures out at the endless sprawl of the universe. "No running? No explosions? No aliens who have suddenly made it their mission in life to obliterate an angry Scotsman and an English teacher?" Clara tuts. "You're losing your touch."

He scowls at her. "I could just as easily deliver us into the middle of a very confusing and simultaneously delicious civil war between a bunch of bakers and their king, you know."

"Of course."

"I could."

"I know."

The Doctor nods once, looking a bit relieved. "Good."

Overhead, the TARDIS burbles, a reminder.

"Ah! Good. Right." He claps his hands together. "Look," he says, turning back around so he can point out to where the space around them is suddenly filled with lights. "It's a space aurora," he whispers, in an appropriately impressive tone.

She appears at his side in a moment, eyes wide, mouth open. (He likes that he can still surprise her.) “It’s incredible.”

“Yes, and it’s also - ” He’s gearing up for a lecture, completely ready to share the entire scientific explanation behind the phenomenon, when he realizes that she’s not actually looking outside anymore. "What are you doing?” he demands, confused by the way she’s suddenly watching _him_ with her too-wide eyes now, the lights from the aurora painting her face with cosmic blues and reds. “The spectacle is out there. It's not - It's not me."

Clara just smiles, shaking her head. There are some things he'll never understand no matter how clever he really is. "I missed you."

His chest feels weirdly likes it's been opened up, like everything has been scooped out and his lungs, his hearts, have been replaced with only a persistent, Clara-shaped ache. He can't breathe around this feeling. "Yeah," he agrees eventually, almost hoarse, "me too."

He doesn’t know how it happens, but when he looks down at her again, her hand is in his, and they’re watching the universe together.

 

 

**II.**

The Doctor dreams.

They're in a train corridor in space. They’re in a train corridor in space and she is dressed in something gold, a dress that shimmers and sparks when the light hits it just right. And she's mid-sentence - gesturing vaguely with the hand that isn't wrapped around a glass of champagne - but he's not paying much attention because he thinks there are probably more important things happening right now than just what she's saying. Like the press of her elbow against his, or the way he can feel her heartbeat in his fingertips, an echo of his own.

"You look lovely," he says, because that is the thing that is most important right now. She is lovely and here with him and most definitely not talking about last hurrahs. "You do," he adds, just in case she doesn't believe him.

Clara gives him that smile he doesn't like, the one that is bittersweet and longing and at least five other emotions he cannot decipher. Somehow, put together, they all come out looking like a goodbye. And he doesn't do goodbyes, not this time around, not with this face.

He takes a step toward her, close enough in the cramped corridor now that his knuckles brush against the delicate beading of her dress. There's no way he'll ever say goodbye to her, and he thinks she can probably see it written all over his face because she lets him take another step and another, until he's crowding her, filling up the space around her as she leans back against the wall. He imagines a tether, a string, holding them together, anchoring them fast to one another.

"Picture the thing you want most in the universe," she says suddenly, out of the blue. He half recognizes the words. "And decide how badly you want it."

"Clara."

She grins up at him, cheeky now, champagne flute balanced delicately somewhere near his shoulder. He can't help that his gaze drops to her mouth. "Is that an answer?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"Do _you_?"

Not sure how to respond to that, he leans forward, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, and he whispers to her. He says, _I don't want to lose you_. He says, _Darling, I'm not sure I know how to live without you._

When she pulls back to look him in the eyes, her mouth is set, determined. "You don't have to," she whispers back to him.

 

 

**III.**

It's entirely an accident, but somehow they end up in the Library of Alexandria. Mostly this wouldn't be an issue except the Doctor has declared any part of time having to do with the Library as a Clara Free Zone because she is, after all, an English teacher and this is a library whose destruction is, regrettably, a fixed point in time.

Oh, and of course there are Daleks there too, for one reason or another - possibly just to make his life even harder.

He really should learn to input coordinates a little better.

She hugs him as soon as they set foot outside the TARDIS, which he supposes can’t be helped given the circumstances. “The Library of Alexandria,” she intones as she pulls back from him. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“You’re right; I shouldn’t have.” He slips a couple fingers around her elbow and pulls gently. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Oh no, nuh uh. We're staying put this time, mister.” Clara gestures at the room around them, every available surface covered with scrolls. "How often do people get to say that they've visited the Library of Alexandria?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Precisely." She turns away from him, trailing a finger across the fresh writing on a nearby open scroll and he knows exactly what she’s going to say next, counts down the seconds until she opens her mouth again.

“We could save this place.” It's hushed, reverent, like she's just remembering how much power they wield over all of time and space. They could do anything if they really wanted to, if there weren't rules that absolutely had to be followed.

The Doctor runs a hand through his hair, stalling for time. "We can't," he admits eventually, swallowing uncomfortably around the words. He knows she knows that was probably going to be the case. "It's a fixed point in time."

She won't look at him. "Okay."

“Clara - ”

“No, I understand.”

“Okay.” He stands there awkwardly for a moment, staring at her back because she still won’t turn around to face him. “Um, okay. I’m going to have a look around, you can stay here and read if you’d like.”

She nods. “That sounds good.” And then, just as he starts walking away, she adds, “Stay out of trouble.”

He manages to do just that for about an hour until he wanders off down a side hallway and practically walks straight into a patrolling Dalek.

Luckily he’s still pretty spry and he does kind of have the element of surprise, so he gets about a twenty second head start that allows him to race back to the main area of the Library and grab Clara's hand all before the Dalek registers that it's just been bumped into by its sworn enemy.

" _Run_."

Unsurprisingly, she’s a little startled given that their last interaction seemed like the beginnings of a fight and they both had parted ways to sulk. Then the Dalek bursts through one of the doors and plows straight into a small table full of scrolls.

Clara suddenly looks like she might hit him or the Dalek or maybe both of them. " _Seriously_?"

He’s already dragging her after him. “Yes. Sorry. Now, run!”

They just manage to lose the pursuing Dalek before the Doctor realizes that he has no idea where they’ve left the TARDIS.

Uncertain and not willing to admit his memory lapse out loud yet, he points around a corner to a nearby door that looks vaguely like a cupboard he would consider leaving the TARDIS in. “That one, I think.”

Clara opens it. Inside, at least ten Dalek eyestalks swivel around toward them.

"Oops. Wrong door."

Rather conveniently, the simultaneous cries of "Exterminate!" drown out anything Clara has to say about his stupid Time Lord brain and the fact that it can remember everything except where he parked the bloody TARDIS. But. He can still see her face and the very angry, possibly murderous look in her eyes.

Something about the fear of being ripped limb from limb by a tiny English teacher jogs his memory. The Doctor grabs her hand again and pulls her back down the way they came.

"The main room!" he yells. "We left her in the main room!"

This time Clara voices her opinion of his incompetence loud enough for him to hear. "I could kill you."

“We should definitely save that for later.”

They make it to the main room with the cadre of Daleks hot on their heels. Some of the blasted things have even picked up the bright idea of _shooting_ at them, which is annoying and, well, rude to say the least.

There’s barely time to breathe.

“Here,” the Doctor gasps, shoving Clara rather unceremoniously through the TARDIS doors, “time to go.”

 

 

**IV.**

They’re sitting outside a cafe in 1980s Paris when she asks curiously, “Is this a date?”

He practically chokes on his croissant. “ _What_?”

She kind of shrugs. "Well, it's just that we're eating, together, in a normal place of your choosing, without monsters or some other kind of agenda. And honestly, as far as I'm concerned, you're also paying for everything."

"I don't - But. Look here - " His face scrunches up in thought.

Something about the way the afternoon sun hits her face makes her look radiant, victorious. She reaches across the table and pats his hand. "That's what I thought."

 

 

**V.**

Today is her birthday, and she is, what, forty-two? Fifty? He can't remember, but it doesn't matter.

The oven dings at him.

“Right, okay.” He points grimly at the oven. “You better have cooked this properly. No burning or falling or any of that. I’m serious.”

The TARDIS makes a noise that he thinks is probably supposed to be reassuring.

“Thank you.” He slides on a pair of heavy-duty oven mitts and then slowly, very slowly, opens the oven. Inside sits a perfectly baked soufflé, browned and just the right temperature.

The Doctor pulls the ramekin out and holds it delicately between both hands, inspecting his work. He wants flawless culinary perfection, something that would make Julia Child proud to have once taught him how to properly crack an egg. And he's not being hyperbolic or obsessive. It's just.

It's Clara's birthday today, and it feels like an anniversary of sorts.

The thought makes his insides go funny.

Something else. He should think about something else. He grabs a random amount of candles and sticks all of them into the top of the soufflé, figuring that Clara will find the gesture charming rather than rude. Julia Child, on the other hand, would probably be less pleased. What with the brightly colored candles sticking every which way out of its surface, his soufflé looks more like the work of a six year old on a sugar high than that of a master chef.

The Doctor sighs and reaches for another handful of candles.

Five minutes later, he appears suddenly beside Clara in the console room - hair sticking up in several, opposing directions, with flour all down the front of his hoodie - and plunks the still-warm soufflé down right in front of her.

“For you,” he says, pulling out some matches with a flourish and then proceeding to try lighting all of the candles at once.

She laughs, moves the treat off of the first edition manuscripts she was organizing for his bookshelves, and then carefully takes the lit match from him. “Let me do that. I don’t think the TARDIS would appreciate you setting fire to her. Again.”

He grumbles, but of course he does as she says.

Once she has all of the candles burning and dripping a rainbow of wax onto the top of the soufflé, the Doctor sidles closer to her and breathes, “Happy Birthday, Clara,”

She looks awed for a moment, like he’s shown her something incredible, beautiful, and then she closes her eyes, makes a wish. When she opens her eyes to blow out her candles, he’s watching her expectantly, his palm already held face up between them. (He’s always liked granting people’s wishes, and really, with all of time and space at his fingertips, how could he ever possibly fail?)

“So,” he says, “where do you want to go?”

Clara smiles, thinking about him, here and now, but also thinking about another him from what feels like a lifetime ago. Something about them feels inevitable, star-crossed. She thinks probably she was always meant to be here, in a police call box floating through outer space, celebrating her birthday with a two thousand year old mad man. Slowly, she leans in toward him, tapping a finger against the delicate bones of his wrist. “Someplace awesome,” she whispers.

It's her only request.

He grins back at her, lifting his hands up to wriggle his fingers at her. "I think I can do that."

 

 

**VI.**

They take a side trip to the last remaining garden in the last human settlement on Mars. It’s supposed to be breathtaking, according to the Doctor, and also maybe haunted, so really, they have to go.

"Those are cucumbers," he says, pointing as they walk past the vines that are way too overgrown and starting to curl over into the walkway. "And then these things - " he pulls to a stop, reaching out and plucking a slightly overripe, reddish-orange vegetable off a bush. "These are a hybrid vegetable, part tomato and part carrot, engineered specifically for this settlement. They contain several days' worth of nutrients just in case there was ever a decrease in food production or something.” He throws the vegetable up into the air before snagging it back down.

Clara squints at him. "You brought me here to look at vegetables? When you said this place was haunted I assumed you meant by ghosts, not by some half-forgotten carrots."

All he can do is sigh. “I’m getting there, Clara.”

“See that you do. Not that the vegetable lesson isn’t interesting,” she tacks on when she sees his wounded look, “it’s just that _ghosts_.”

“I know.”

So he speeds up his tour, skipping the possibly too in-depth lecture on the merits of space rutabaga versus normal, earth rutabaga and instead taking her to see the settlement's _pièce de résistance._

"It's a hill."

He rolls his eyes, gesturing at the small, grass covered hill in front of them. "This is so much more than _just_ a hill, Clara. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for the people here to adapt and shape Mars' environment so that they could actually build a hill that could sustain grass and not just collapse in on itself? This hill is a symbol of what human perseverance and ingenuity can actually accomplish in the face of adverse conditions."

"Right." She grabs the weird tomato-carrot invention from him and takes a huge bite, making a face when the unfamiliar texture registers on her tongue, and promptly giving it back to him. "So. Can we sit on this fabulous, symbolic hill? Or is that not allowed?"

"You're mocking me."

"A little bit, yes."

He sighs, scrubbing one hand across his face before admitting, "Yes, we can sit on the hill."

"Fantastic."

Once they reach the top and have a clear view of the entire garden, Clara finally understands why so many people consider the settlement to be haunted. Everything looks like it was abandoned while the settlers were still in the middle of living there. The sprinklers for the plants are set on a timer, there are dirt covered tools left haphazardly around the garden, and somewhere, someone must have left a fan on because every so often a soft breeze blows across her shoulders.

The Doctor taps her arm, making her jump. “You’re missing the best part,” he explains, and then, when she gives him a look of confusion, points up toward the ceiling.

Above them, stretched across the entire roof of the abandoned garden, is a simulated sky, currently streaked with the last vestiges of a blood red sunset.

“ _Oh._ ”

He smiles, pleased with her reaction. “Was this worth my boring lecture about vegetables?”

Clara makes him wait before answering, pausing just long enough to make it seem as though she’s really considering her answer. “Maybe…” she says, but when he starts pouting she can’t help but laugh. “Yes, you moron. Yes, it absolutely was.”

Already, the sky overhead has shifted into total nighttime, the lights in the garden dimming to accommodate the change as distant stars and planets begin coming into view. Now she can definitely see how this place might be haunted; the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when something that sounds like the crunching of gravel comes from below them.

“Doctor?”

He’s suddenly much closer to her, his arm brushing against hers as he starts talking. “Did you know,” he says, picking out a small, greenish colored planet from the night sky, “that there’s a place where the ocean is made entirely out of crystal? When the sunlight hits the waves everything _gleams_. And you can’t even begin to imagine the way it sounds, like a thousand wind chimes - ”

Honestly, she has no idea why it comes out of her mouth right at that moment. Probably something about the way he seems to be leaning in to her - like his body can only handle being so many inches apart from hers - or the fact that they’re standing in a place millions of miles and thousands of years away from her own time and planet, talking about another place where only he can ever take her. Either way, she ends up turning into his shoulder and murmuring, "I love you.”

"Clara," he says, looking only mildly surprised. And then for good measure, "Clara, Clara, Clara. Clara."

She smiles, slow and sweet and just a little bit sad. "I know."

“I can’t - ”

“I know.” And she does. If there’s one person in this world that she understands it’s him. She takes hold of his hand, leaning back so that she can gaze up at the simulated night sky. “Tell me about the stars,” she says.

 

 

**VII.**

She saves him.

To be fair, it’s only kind of his fault that they’re in this situation to begin with.

A very purple, very angry alien that looks kind of like a walking dish rag stomps down brutally on the chain currently binding his wrists together. “The Doctor will be executed for his crimes against the Eetarian people!”

All right, so maybe this is ninety-five perfect his fault.

“Listen,” he starts, “I don’t - ” He stops when he sees Clara pushing through the crowd of gathered Eetari. “Clara…?”

She marches right up to the alien that’s threatening his life without so much as pausing to glance in his general direction. “You need to let him go.” There’s metal in her voice, she looks about five inches taller, and for a second all the Doctor can do is stare at her in awe. Then he realizes what she’s going to do.

“No!” He pulls roughly at his bonds. “No, don’t you dare!”

The purple Eetari ignores him, focused solely on Clara. "The Doctor must be executed for his crimes."

The crowd - which really seems more like a mob now - cheers loudly, drowning out anything more the Doctor wants to say.

Clara shakes her head, waiting until the noise has died down again before she speaks. "Are you kidding me? Him, the Doctor? Don't be daft." The words are sharp and quick; she barely even pauses for breath between sentences. He wonders momentarily if this is how he appears to people, confident and clever and just a little too fast-talking. It's only because he knows her so well that he can see the smallest cracks in the facade. The way her hands shake slightly. The harsh clenching of her jaw.

But she keeps going.

"How could _he_ be the Doctor? Have you taken a look at what he's wearing lately? That completely ridiculous velvet coat?" She laughs, and the Doctor tries not to feel completely and utterly offended.

The Eetari looks confused. "I don't understand."

Clara actually rolls her eyes. "Do I have to spell it out for you? I. Am. The. Doctor."

The Doctor groans.

Everything around them rather quickly descends into chaos after that, the gathered Eetari shouting and pushing at each other in an attempt to grab Clara or the Doctor or both of them, if possible. Somehow, Clara manages to slip between the multitude of arms to find him and fish the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket.

"You're welcome," is all she says as she sonics him free of his bonds.

He scowls up at her. "I won't be forgiving you for the crack about my coat."

Clara laughs, pulling him up to stand beside her and then keeping hold of his hand as she drags him through an opening in the crowd. "Yes you will."

It's all he can do to trail obediently after her. "Yes I will," he admits on a sigh.

 

 

**VIII.**

Her legs are stretched out between them, her feet practically on his lap while she sits in a smaller wingback chair across from his and reads a battered copy of _Wuthering Heights_.

This is a thing they’ve started doing at the end of the day, after they’ve saved worlds together and changed people’s lives. They’ll wash off the blood and dust from their adventures and then find each other again in the console room, curling into their respective chairs and just existing together for a moment. Normally, Clara brings a book and takes careful notes in the margins while the Doctor tinkers or reads or invents a new way to spread jam on toast.

Sometimes though, like now, he just watches her. The way her nose crinkles when she reads something funny fascinates him, and he’s dedicated a very long time to trying to figure out why exactly the sound of her breathing so close to him is the most comforting thing he’s heard in awhile. There are just so many tiny, extraordinary, human quirks wrapped up into her equally tiny, extraordinary, human body, and he wants to know them all.

"Clara, my Clara." The words trip so easily off his tongue that it takes him a moment to realize he’s said them out loud.

“Hmm…?” She finishes the sentence she’s on, using her finger to hold her place when she finally decides to glance up at him. “What?”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching her, so she laughs. “What is it?” she presses, beginning to look a little self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he admits finally, smiling back at her. He runs a hand along the top of her foot. “Nothing at all.”

He could really get used to this.

 

 

**IX.**

It doesn’t happen often, but they do occasionally have bad days. Days when nobody lives and even their most clever plans don’t completely work out. Days when Clara has to watch him accept all over again that sometimes he is just not going to be right enough or fast enough or strong enough. Today is one of those days.

They’re both covered in mud, and they’ve tracked it all over the console room (much to the TARDIS’ displeasure), but that’s not what Clara is most concerned with right now.

“Doctor?”

He flinches at the sound of her voice and again when she reaches out to place a hand against his shoulder and she really, really thought they had moved well past this by now. There must be a _look_ on her face because he smiles wanly at her and then gestures, explaining. “Too much,” he says, pointing to the air around his head. “Too much stimulation.”

“Oh.” She wonders briefly if he can still hear them screaming, the planet they just left behind. The people who are still burning. At first he had been delighted to stumble upon a place where most of the natives communicated through telepathy, but that had been well before everything had started to go horribly wrong.

Clara takes a few steps back, giving him space, watching him like he might break at any second.

“It’ll get better eventually,” he assures her, turning his attention to something on the console that doesn’t really need his attention. “It’ll fade.”

The silence that falls then is awkward, stiff. All she’s ever wanted is to make him feel better. Isn’t that part of her job, after all? As his carer?

When she starts closing the gap between them again he looks up, startled. She admits, "I just wish I could help you. I wish I knew how."

The Doctor shakes his head, weary and sad and millions of days older than her. "You don't always have to have the answer to everything," he murmurs.

But she won’t accept that. Not for one minute.

He doesn’t flinch as badly this time when she touches him, when she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists. “Will this help?” Clara asks, already raising his hands so that the pads of his fingers rest against her temples.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She mends a lot of things about him. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if it extended this far.

Slowly, he leans in toward her, letting his mind brush against hers.

At first it’s just confusion; there’s still too much. The smell of ozone, her hair brushing against his cheek. He can see the first time her mom made her a soufflé and the last time she hung out with friends. Her life, her memories, unwind around him. And then, rather abruptly, there is only her and him and a slice of blue, blue sky. He can feel chalk on his fingertips, can hear the chatter of children out in the hallway. There is the shape and feel of her lesson plans, quotes and characters and metaphors from Brontë and Fitzgerald and -

He breathes, and the noise fades away.

“Doctor?”

They’re standing on a hillside, the sky above them burnt orange, the world around them completely still. He knows where they are now.

When he turns to find Clara, she’s looking at him knowingly. “This is Gallifrey, isn’t it?”

“No. Well, yes. It’s my memory of Gallifrey,” he explains, taking hold of her hand. “Here.” His voice is so quiet that she almost doesn’t catch what he’s saying. “Let me show you.”

Together, they explore. He shows her the shining dome of the Citadel, watches her run her hand through knee-high red grass. He doesn’t need to talk to her about what she’s seeing, because she should be getting the explanation straight from his thoughts, but he does anyway, giving her even the smallest memories or facts right up until they reach the fraying borders of his memory.

The field they were walking through eventually just kind of fades off into nothing, so they both pull to a stop. He can feel Clara watching him.

"This is the end of what you remember?"

He nods, suddenly too tired to talk.

"I'm sorry." She's leaning against a tree now, the silver of the leaves reflecting off her hair, and for a split second he thinks about home and how sometimes it’s not a place at all but a person.

The Doctor walks toward her, shrugs, because yes, it’s sad, but she shouldn’t have to apologize about it; he has her instead of Gallifrey, and that’s become infinitely more precious somehow. He crowds himself carefully around her, breathing in the half-remembered scent of sun-warmed, Gallifreyan grass mixed with the lightness of Clara’s perfume. He asks, softly, “Can you see me now?”

Her smile looks sad, but her fingers skim along his jawline, and he wants to believe that he’s made her happy in this moment. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I see you.”

Breaking the connection is like waking up from a long nap.

They blink blearily at one another for several long seconds before Clara finally smiles at him.

“Better?”

He’s never felt so safe before; it’s as though she suddenly lives within the empty spaces between his ribs or the artful lines of his palms, always there, always wrapped around him, _seared_ into him.

He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. His hands flutter uncertainly near her shoulders. “You don’t always have to have the answer to everything,” he says again.

“I know.” Clara shrugs. “But I do.”

 

 

**X.**

It’s a normal day. (Which, in retrospect, is actually what haunts him the most.)

“So,” he starts, flipping a couple dials on the console and then yanking lazily on a lever, “where to next? We could pop over to the Sinbad Nebula if you’d like and chase down the Rochthonis Sisters. They’ve got three throats, so their a cappella performances are quite interesting.”

Next to him, Clara laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

He doesn’t completely remember the coordinates, so he might guess a little bit, but what Clara doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Not really. So maybe they’ll show up a couple hundred years too late or a mile or three too far to the right. That’s not important. What’s important is the journey itself.

He’s just about to send them whirling off into the vortex when she stops him.

“Hold on, I think someone’s calling me.” She fishes her phone out of her pocket and stares at it for a moment, confused. It’s been a long time since she’s gotten a phone call from anyone but him - honestly, at a certain point the Doctor forgets she still has people back home waiting for her. “Hello?”

He can’t hear the person on the other end of the line, so he settles for just watching her face, the way different emotions flit across it so fast he can barely catch them.

“What?” The sharpness of her tone startles him. “Wait, no. Say that again.”

Alarm. That’s alarm on her face. His stomach twists.

“Oh my God.” It sounds like a broken off sob in her mouth. The realization makes him so upset that he misses the rest of her phone conversation and doesn’t actually look at her again until she’s talking to him.

“It’s my gran,” Clara says, coming to stand in front of him but not quite meeting his gaze. “There was an accident and, um, she got hurt.” Her voice cracks. “So she’s not - I mean, she won’t - ” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Oh.” It’s all he can come up with in response, and it sounds so, _so_ hollow on his tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Do you...Do you need anything?”

“Take me home, Doctor,” she says, eyes too bright and cheeks starting to blotch. He knows that he will remember her looking like this for months, years, _centuries_ to come. “I need to go home.”

He stares at her for a beat, uncomprehending. This isn’t the way he imagined this happening at all and he doesn’t know how to process it.

She’s crying.

That, at least, snaps him into action. “Yes, okay. Whatever you need.” He takes her hand gently in his and sets about reprogramming the TARDIS coordinates. “I mean it,” he adds, pausing to look down at her so that she’ll see the truth of it in his eyes, so she’ll understand exactly what he’s offering. “Whatever you need.”

“Okay,” Clara breathes, letting her cheek come to rest against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He thinks wildly, hopefully, that there must be another world somewhere where they end up together.


End file.
